Greyhound

I sit at the back of the bus bound for South Station, earbuds plugged in. One of the other false Markus’ got on the same bus as me, both of us apparently deciding that this was the way to go. I wonder how similar our plans are.

“Vidocq’s following the sedan towards the marina,” Genevieve’s voice reports in my ear.

She’s set up in front of a computer now, relaying the Inspector’s every move to me. So far, the plan appears to be working exactly as I’d like it to be—Vidocq’s been chasing a car that I’m not in for the past ten minutes, and the rest of his team must surely be equally confused.

“They’re approaching the waterfront,” Genevieve says, “and looking at the traffic, they might have both just blown a red light.”

The bus pulls to a stop by South Station. The Markus sitting closer to the front gets up, glancing at me. I get off the bus after him.

“Hey dude, where you planning on heading?” he asks, covering his mouth with his hand as he speaks. “I think we should split up, y’know, think our chances work better that way.”

“I’m switching to another bus,” I say, avoiding any details deliberately.

“Good shit, I found a train out that leaves in a couple minutes,” he says. “Good luck, dude. You actually kinda look like Markus. Maybe you should consider letting yourself be seen by a camera or two. It might give you better odds at the pussy.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” I say, watching as he rushes off into the train station.

“What was that?” Genevieve’s voice asks in my ear.

I can’t tell what the guy was playing at. Was that genuine advice? Or was he trying to bait me into slipping up, so that he could improve his own chances?

“Nothing,” I say, deciding to ignore him. He doesn’t matter, and I’m going to try to avoid being spotted here if I can anyways.

“The guy in the sedan just ditched the car and jumped into the marina! It must be freezing in there! He’s got his phone encased in something waterproof, so I can keep tracking him, but Vidocq’s making a call on his phone to another agent that we’ve got on record. That agent’s about um… five minutes off from your location. Stick to the western streets if you can.” Genevieve sounds breathless from the rapid talk, and I can hear her fingers running across her keyboard as she speaks, pulling up all the information I could possibly need at the moment.

I make my way around the exterior of the station as I listen to Genevieve, avoiding the gaze of the security cameras and other detection devices placed inside the station, until I come across the place that I’m looking for. The parking lot, tucked into the side of the station like a massive afterthought, is filled with hanging ventilation ducts and unevenly coloured tiles that occasionally declare ‘WATCH YOUR STEP.’ As if I wasn’t going to already.

A number of buses are idling in the parking lot, their drivers congregating by the far entrance, smoking cigarettes and laughing at one another. I don’t see my bus yet, but it isn’t due to leave for a few more minutes.

“Vidocq just leaped into the bay! He’s swimming after the other guy!” Genevieve exclaims. “I don’t know what he… shit, shit, water must have shorted out his phone, we’ve lost the signal on him.”

I try to keep my expression neutral as I lean against a support beam, watching a group of teenagers stumbling around in the distance. Knowing Vidocq’s location was the one advantage that we’d had over him. We’ve lost that now.

“The agent he called is making his way towards South Station, you have maybe three minutes before he arrives,” Genivieve says.

The bus is late. What do I do if the agent gets here and my ride’s not ready to leave yet? And more importantly—do they know that it’s the real me here in South Station? Or do they just have agents checking all the obvious spots? If it’s the former, I may be fucked no matter what I do, because it means they have some way of tracking me live.

The Greyhound bus pulls up to the stop, and the door hisses open. The scrolling ticker reads “NEW YORK - PORT AUTHORITY.” The driver inside, an old man with a scraggly white beard, makes his way down the steps and opens up the luggage compartment. A few people, lined up by the bus stop, begin loading in their luggage. All I’ve got is a simple backpack.

“What was the delay, maaan?” This, from a guy wearing a multi-coloured beanie, with a joint held between his fingers.

“Traffic,” the driver grunts. “And you can’t smoke on the bus.”

I casually make my way over to the bus, watching as the guy with the joint takes a last sorrowful pull before he tosses it. There are a couple people ahead of me in the queue, but not a whole lot. They take their sweet time getting onto the bus, and then it’s finally my turn.

I walk up the steps and get into the dingy bus compartment, glancing at the couple obviously making out in the back row. I choose the seat right behind the driver.

“The agent’s in South Station,” Genevieve says. The bus driver gets back onto the bus, and I hand him my fare. He accepts it wordlessly, rummaging for a second to find change. “But he’s heading for the trains. Don’t think any of them are actually on you.”

When the driver passes a couple seats behind me, I let myself relax a bit, and text to the group chat: Bus should leave in two minutes or so. There was a small delay.

“Thought that might have been what was up,” Genevieve says. “The agent’s not even on the fake Markus’ platform. I think they’re just scrambling for leads.”

I smile at the thought of that, and before I know it, the bus is pulling away from the stop, bound for New York.

“You sure you want to get off here, son? You aren’t getting a refund for the full price you paid,” the bus driver says.

This is the first stop that the bus has made, technically still within Boston city limits, a quick stop to pick up a few other passengers. We are a far cry from New York.

“Realized I forgot somethin’,” I mumble to the driver. “I’ll take the next bus out.”

The driver shrugs at me, and I get off the Greyhound bus. It speeds away a minute later, leaving me thinking about Mr. Samuel. He would have found this funny. I wonder how he’s been holding up.

“Our swimmer boy just got back onto land. No clue if Vidocq’s still on his tail, but damn that kid could swim,” Genevieve says, interrupting thoughts.

“No chance I’d be doing that so soon after the surgery,” I mutter back to her below my breath. “But maybe we can hope that Vidocq still doesn’t know about that.”

“It would be good for Jessica’s sake,” Genevieve replies.

"At least the swimmer was good at distracting them for those critical minutes,” I say.

“Yep, that he certainly was,” Genevieve laughs. She pauses for a moment, and then relays to me the information that I can’t check for myself right this moment: “Erin says she’s on the plane back now. There are bodyguards with her on the jet, but she can text. Next T train comes by in four minutes, by the way. You might want to hurry up.”

“Thanks,” I respond, picking up my pace to a light jog. The closest subway station will take me straight back to MIT, should I be able to catch the train.